If You Must
by Valkryie Cullen
Summary: The 1972 Summer Olympics. On September 9, 1972, the gold-medal game for men's basketball ended in one of most controversial moments in sports history. For America, he refused to take it lying down.


I don't own Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaruya does. Basketball is by far my favorite sport, and so I wanted to give this fanfic a try. The game itself is undoubtedly one of the most controversial games in basketball history, so if you'd like you can check out clips of the game on YouTube.

P.S. – I just watched a video of Switzerland's entry for Eurovision 2011. I will most _definitely_ be doing a Eurovision 2011 fanfic! You can video of this song on YouTube as well—try and imagine Vash singing the song!

* * *

If You Must

* * *

Tears and anger. That was how America could describe it.

He stood there in silence in the locker room, making eye contact with every young man on the team. Many were slouched on benches, exhausted from the game. Some were crying. But others were talking loudly and angrily.

"How did this happen?"

"What were they thinking?"

"—All in the Soviets pocket—"

America swallowed thickly. It was not easy for him to concede defeat; he knew this. Basketball was _his_ sport, after all. His teams _never_ lost at basketball at the Olympics, not since it was introduced thirty-six years ago.

But _this_…for this to happen? It wasn't a defeat so much as it was a hit-and-run. Because this victory, that was ripped out of their hands, was done completely outside the realm of logic.

_I'm not standing for this_. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _And nobody else will. It was such a deliberate sabotage, that nobody can deny we were robbed!_

One of the assistant coaches came up to him. "The hearing is shortly, isn't it? I know they aren't hosting the medal ceremony until this is straightened out."

"That's correct," America said. He held a manila folder up. "We have enough evidence on our side to show that this was a complete screw-up. There's no way they can deny these charges."

"I-I know, but if they don't—"

"I don't understand how they _couldn't_ vote in our favor," America cut in. "It's as I said; there was blatant bias in this game, and for them to just restart over and over again…" he shook his head, and forced himself not to become angry. "There isn't any way for them to vote otherwise. You'd have to be _blind_ to not see that this was a setup."

He sounded confident; _way_ too confident. But he couldn't help it. He wanted to help his team, especially since they'd lost in such a horrible manner. He couldn't let them down, and he didn't intend to.

"Mr. Jones?"

America turned away from the assistant coach and regarded the young man that approached him. "Yeah, Kenny?"

Team captain Kenneth Davis was holding himself in check. America could see how angry he was, but he remained calm. "I agree with you. I don't think there's any way they can't vote in our favor."

America smiled at him. "That's the spirit!"

"But if they don't," Kenneth said. "If they don't, we want you to tell them something on our behalf."

"Sure," America said. "What is it?"

* * *

America entered the room where the hearing would be held. His whole body instinctively tensed when he saw Russia sitting there calmly. The other country didn't seem to have any notes with him, and he held onto a smile as he turned to look at America. "Hello, America."

"Hello," America said stiffly, looking around the room as he reluctantly took a seat near Russia. Against the far wall sat the host country for the Olympics, Germany. The young man looked haggard and absolutely miserable, and America could feel for him. This Olympics was meant to be Germany's redemption to the world. He'd lobbied incredibly hard to be the host country in Munich, mostly in part because of the last time he'd hosted the Olympics. In 1936 in Berlin. When Adolf Hitler was still in power.

And Germany had tried so hard to present himself as a peaceful country of goodwill. To cleanse his image as a monster that'd birthed an army responsible for millions of deaths. But problems kept arising, which accumulated in the massacre of eleven members of Israel's Olympic team. The whole situation still seemed so surreal to America, and it amazed him that this horrible nightmare had only occurred four days prior to this.

That terrible tragedy, and now _this_ mess. America doubted anyone would really care about _his_ predicament, especially since it was about basketball. But he had to do what was right.

"This meeting will come to order." America looked at the five countries on FIBA appeal jury. The Italian brothers represented Italy, with Italy Romano announcing the start of the meeting. Italy Veneziano looked a little shaky and nervous, and he kept glancing at Germany.

The other four countries on the panel looked calm. Puerto Rico smiled at America, and America felt some assurances of seeing his good friend on the panel. Cuba looked absolutely bored and impatient. Hungary was writing something on her notepad. And Poland, the country seat in the middle of the other four, had his hands folded in front of his face.

"This hearing is in regards to the gold-medal round of the men's basketball game," Romano said. He seemed quite pleased to take charge of the meeting. "America has filed a formal protest of the end results of the game. Both sides can present their side of the argument, and we'll each individually decide who is right in this case."

"Let's make this snappy," Cuba said, yawning behind his hand. "I have to prep my team to accept the bronze."

America bit down hard on his lower lip to stop himself from screaming at his arch-enemy. It wouldn't look good to go off one of the judges. He slowly stood up and opened his folder. "I want the end results of this game to be thrown out. What has happened to my team is a travesty in the name of sportsmanship, and was most blatantly a plot to make my team lose.

"I could go into the Soviet team's rough handling throughout the game, but that doesn't matter. What matters are the final moments of the game." America looked up and looked at each judge. "Doug Collins successfully threw two free-throws, which put my team one-point ahead of Russia's. The Soviet coach, Sergei Bashkin—"

"_Assistant _coach," Russia correctly calmly. "Bashkin is the _assistant_ coach."

"_Assistant_ coach, Sergei Bashkin," America fumed. "Rushed the score table and raised a ruckus over a timeout. His actions, while the ball was _in play_, should've counted as a technical foul against the Soviets, but it didn't. But the fact of the matter is, the Soviet's called the timeout _while_ Doug was making his free-throws, so it shouldn't have been valid. Because he didn't call his timeout on time, the play was continued. But Bashkin's tem—" America stopped himself. He almost called the Soviet's actions a temper tantrum. "The commotion Bashkin created at the score table caused the play to be stopped at exactly _one_ _second_."

America once again felt the anger inside of him well up, but he forced himself to be calm. "Whether or not the Soviets got their timeout called in time really doesn't matter. What happened next _shouldn't _have happened. FIBA secretary Renato William Jones, who had absolutely _no authority_ over the game, invaded the court and demanded that three seconds, be put back on the clock. Why three seconds? At the time in which the Soviets were granted their timeout, there was one second left on the clock. I have it on good authority that one of the referees, Renato Righetto, who by the way, did _not_ sign the scorecard off for this game, intended the game to be restarted at one second, but Jones told him he was wrong, and that three seconds would be put on the clock. And!" America knew this next part would be difficult to say. "I have an eyewitness who heard Jones say, and I quote." He pulled out a piece of paper with a single quote on it. "_'The Americans have to learn how to lose, even when they think they are right'_."

Italy gasped audibly, and Romano elbowed him in the side. America felt a measure of relief from this reaction, and tucked the note back into the folder.

He flipped through more of his paperwork. "So the game was restarted, and the Soviets were granted the ball. They tried to inbound the ball, and failed. For all intensive purposes, my team won the game. Lo and behold, the clock wasn't set correctly! Why did the referees initiate play if the clock wasn't ready? My team had thought they had won, and were celebrating on the court." America looked up. "Also, during the celebrations somebody pit-pocketed my team's head coach, Hank Iba, while the team celebrated. But once the clock was _corrected_, my team was ordered back on the court, not given a moment to digest this news, and was told they would be disqualified if they didn't."

He needed to take another deep breath before he continued. "So the Soviets were given the ball to inbound for a _third time_. But as my team member, Tom McMillen, tried to guard Ivan Edeshko, referee Artenik Arabadjian made him back away. Why? Tom was the legal distance away from Ivan. But it gave Ivan _plenty_ of room to make his inbound, and might I add that his foot stepped over the line when he threw the pass. Aleksandr Belov caught the ball, made the basket, and you all know the results.

"This game had some of the most unfair, and corrupt officiating I have ever seen in a sporting event. Renato Jones has no authority to come onto the court and _twist_ the end results as he did. And the officials on the court had no business listening to him. I had a winning streak when it came to basketball, yes. But that has nothing to do with this protest and _everything_ to do with this deliberate sabotage to make my team lose!"

America dropped the folder back into his seat. "I ask this panel to throw out the results of this game. My team won the gold medal, and that's what we deserve."

Russia still sat there calmly, not at all offended by America's accusations. "Are you finished, America?"

"…Yes," America said. He snatched his folder and sat back down.

Russia stood up. "I have nothing to say, really. This game was filmed, and we all saw it. Whether Renato Jones had any authority on the court doesn't matter. And _I_ have it on good authority that Artenik Arabadjian's gesture to Tom McMillen didn't mean he had to back away. The American team had a chance to stop my players, and failed. Two American players, Kevin Joyce and Jim Forbes, fell over each other when Aleksandr caught that inbound. And I had my camera on Ivan and I can attest that his foot _didn't_ step over the line. My team had no hand in the chaos surrounding the officiating. We won the game fair and square."

Russia sat back down. After a moment, he looked at America and smiled.

Cuba scoffed, and gave a thumb down. "America is just being a whiny sore loser. You can't admit defeat like a true champion, so you have to complain to us. It's annoying."

"Be quiet!" America snapped, quickly standing up. "I have a very valid argument! My team was ROBBED!"

"I agree," Puerto Rico said, jumping up as well. "Renato Jones had _no_ authority to interfere in the game. This was _clearly_ sabotaged to make America lose!"

"Can't you think for yourself?" Cuba asked him. "Or are you going to always remain America's little _lap-puppy_!"

"Don't talk to me that way!" Puerto Rico snapped, glaring at him. "I call it like I see it! It was an unfair game!"

The Italian brothers were conversing between themselves. They both nodded, and Italy started to stand up. But Romano beat him to the punch. "We agree with America. We watched the game live, and I must say the results were total _bullshit_. Jones didn't belong there, and the officials were obviously against the American team."

America felt his hope rise. "Thank you—"

"I agree with Russia," Hungary cut in. She looked cool and professional as she looked at the two countries in front of her. "It's not the Soviet team's fault that the officiating deteriorated in such a way. And it wasn't the fault of the officiating that the American team failed to stop that inbound. The last play was fair, and Russia's team won fair and square."

Two for America and two for Russia. That only left Poland, who was uncharacteristically silent. His pose was the same as when America had arrived, though now his eyes were closed. It was difficult to know how he would rule.

_Come on, Poland! _America pleaded silently. _It's me against Russia! And you __**hate**__ Russia! You can't forget all of the horrible things he's done to you!_

Poland finally opened his eyes, and rested his hands flat on the table. "I agree…with Russia."

America's jaw dropped, and he gaped at Poland in horror. The other country continued. "They inbounded the ball at the end, fair and square."

America was speechless. He couldn't find the words to say as Romano spoke. "Then…the appeal is denied, and America's protest is voted down." He picked up the gavel and snapped it hard against the table. "Russia gets the gold, and America gets the silver."

"Thank you very much," Russia said kindly. "My team worked very hard for it."

America thought back to those boys in the locker room, waiting for the gold medals that had been ripped out of their hands. _This isn't fair…this isn't fair…_

He looked at each of the judges, wondering how in their right minds those who voted against him could do so. Cuba looked pleased, Hungary still looked cool, and Poland wasn't looking at him.

Realization suddenly dawned on America. "W-Wait a minute!"

Everyone stopped gathering their materials and looked at America. "I denounce this appeals panel!"

"See?" Cuba sneered. "You can't _ever_ accept defeat with dignity!"

"This panel is completely biased!" America shouted, feeling like a fool for not realizing it sooner. "Hungary and Poland are part of the Warsaw Pact under Russia! And Cuba _obviously_ hates my guts! Of course they're all going to vote against me!"

"And Puerto Rico's in _your_ corner," Germany said, more to himself than anything. "Italy's the only non-partisan country on the panel."

"Our rulings are final," Hungary said. "Russia wins the gold."

"…This is terrible…" Italy moaned.

Russia turned to leave the room, but stopped to smile at America. "I look forward to standing at the podium with you…as _my_ team accepts the gold."

America's folder slid out of his hand as Russia left the room. He gaped at the appeals panel. Puerto Rico looked visibly upset, and mouthed 'I'm sorry' to America. Romano was audibly muttering curse words under his breath, and Italy looked distressed.

Cuba looked the most pleased out of everyone. "—wasted enough time. My team won the bronze, after all…"

America ducked his head, and clenched his fists. He'd been a fool. He believed too strongly in the spirit of sportsmanship. He's thought, with truth on his side, that he would prevail.

But politics got in the way. And now…

"_If they don't, we want you to tell them something on our behalf."_

America remembered Kenneth Davis's words in that moment, and he relaxed somewhat. "If this is how you are going to rule, then I have a message to deliver on behalf of my team."

"Are you still here?" Cuba complained. "Stop wasting our time and just _get out there_ and take your silver medal!"

"No," America snapped. "I'm not taking the silver. My team did NOT win the silver! We won the gold, and if you are going to refuse to give us ANYTHING than what we earned, then you can _keep_ your medals!"

Everyone froze, and gaped at America. "W-What are you saying?" Germany sputtered.

America raised his head high in defiance. "This is a message from my _whole_ team! We don't want the silver! And if that's what you intend to give us, then we refuse to accept it! And you can tell the world that the United States of America is not going to lie down and take second place when WE WON!"

America spun around and stormed out of the room. That was the clear message his team had given him. They felt robbed and cheated, and they weren't going to lie down and take it. If the Olympics insisted on them taking home the silver, then they would simply insist not to accept the medals. Simple as that. They couldn't be forced to take them, and they didn't want them.

It was a hollow protest to hold over the Olympics, but America meant it.

* * *

Russia's and Cuba's teams lined up to accept the gold and bronze respectively. The two countries stood behind their teams, waiting for the ceremony to start.

America and his team hadn't arrived. But Russia wasn't worried. The silver medals were here waiting for them when they _would_ arrive. And it would be a sweet victory for Russia indeed, to see his team higher on the podium than America.

Cuba's team was called onto the long podium to be awarded their bronze medals. Cuba cheered and clapped enthusiastically for his team. "_Maravilloso_!"

The American team still hadn't arrived. Russia was confused, and he could tell his players were as well. They were about to be called onto the podium, after all. Where were they?

It was then that the announcement came over the loudspeakers, in English. _"The United States has refused to accept the silver medal, because they feel they won the gold."_

Russia stood frozen. He looked at the loudspeakers at the ceiling, at the empty podium to his right, and at the women holding the silver medals. Then he looked at his team, and they all looked incredibly upset. They were called forward to accept the gold, and their moods improved somewhat. But it did nothing to settle Russia.

Cuba inched over to him. "America threw a temper tantrum and refused the medals. I thought he was joking, but I guess he's holding true to it."

Russia ducked his head, and a light laugh rumbled from his throat. "That was…impudent of him. I'm not going to forget this."

* * *

I tried to make this as impartial as possible, by presenting both sides of the argument for this game. As this is an American-centered fanfic, it seems a little biased in his favor but I hope you don't mind. My source material was Wikipedia, again, and the sports documentary _0:03 Seconds from Gold_.

- The Munich Massacre occurred on September 5, 1972, when the Palestinian terrorist group Black September took Israelis Olympians hostage in their dorm. Their demands included the release of 234 Palestinians that were jailed in Israel. After a twenty-hour standoff the German police attempted a rescue as the terrorists brought the hostages to the airport via helicopter. The rescue attempt was a complete disaster, which left all of the remaining hostages dead. Two had been killed during the standoff in the dorms, and the remaining nine died during the rescue attempt. The games were ordered to continue in spite of the tragedy. The Soviet Union didn't recognize Israel as a country, and so all Soviet teams were not allowed to go to the public memorial service and were instead ordered to train.

- Germany did indeed acquire the Olympics to help redeem his image to the world. The Munich Olympics, up to the point of the Munich Massacre, was considered one of the most laid-back Olympics in history. Up to this point, especially in light of World War II, Germany had a strictly pacifistic policy when it came to crises. After the Massacre, however, Germany began to invest in counter-terrorism measures and the GSG-9 unit was created.

- The Munich Olympics _did_ have some high points. American swimmer Mark Spitz won seven gold medals, which at the time was the most a single individual won in the Olympics. He held that record for thirty-six years until Michael Phelps famously broke it with eight gold medals in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Australian swimmer Shane Gould won three gold medals, one silver, and one bronze, all at the age of _fifteen_. And handball and archery were reintroduced in the Olympics, just to name a few.


End file.
